Angle of Incidence
by Long John Silicon
Summary: After the triwizard tournament Voldemort has returned but no one is willing to believe it. Dumbledore worries over how to proceed but help arrives from a most unexpected quarter. Join Harry as he learns how to defeat a Dark Lord and about himself from what could have been.
1. A Most Unexpected Happenstance

Hello and Welcome! And thank you for clicking on my story!

Our tale begins about one week into summer holidays after the events of Goblet of Fire. It's all canon up to that point, or at least as close to it as I can make it, having only seen the movies and spending a best left uncounted number of hours on the various Harry Potter wikis.

Reviews are most welcome, including the picking of Nit or Brit, as is pointing out any glaring or obvious errors that I, in my enthusiasm, completely overlooked.

The Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter or his world; J.K. Rowling does. I can only express my gratitude that she allows us to play in her universe. I write this story for my own enjoyment (and hopefully yours). No copyright infringement is intended and I realize no profit, save for the delight I feel at seeing the "views" counter climbing upwards.

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 **Angle of Incidence**

Chapter One – A Most Unexpected Happenstance

The office was the picture of comfortable chaos.

A warm midday sun streamed through the tall windows, gleaming off of the gold accents that highlighted much of the furniture in the room.

The crimson carpet was thin but soft; a pair of plush purple chairs sat on opposite sides of a small lime-green table; the shelves lining the walls opposite the windows were stuffed with books, charts, and scrolls; above them hung portraits of wise-looking witches and wizards, all of them snoozing.

Some of those shelves played host to a few of the dozens of small knickknacks that whirred, hummed, clicked, and emitted small puffs of coloured smoke; their slight noises joining the muted ticks of the grandfather clock that sat in a corner, preventing the otherwise deep quiet from becoming oppressive.

In front of more shelves of ancient tomes and a ratty old hat, a Magnificent Oaken Desk presided over the room with a solemn, undisputed, authority.

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, sat behind the aforementioned Magnificent Oaken Desk, picking halfheartedly at the mounds of year-end administrative detritus that threatened to overwhelm it.

He set down a red feather quill, took off his half-moon spectacles and rubbed his fingers in small circles around his temples, hoping to stave off the headache that was beginning to form. There were times that he seemed to feel every one of his hundred and fourteen years.

Summer was paradoxically the busiest time for the headmaster of a school. There were reports to read and policies to adjust; requisitions and orders to approve; the hundreds of small random tasks that an institution of learning needed to function. Minerva was a true blessing in that regard, how she managed to teach _and_ keep the bulk of that work off of his desk was beyond him.

Returning his glasses to his eyes he continued slogging through the documents in front of him. A review for a new charms text for third-years, yet another request from Rolanda Hooch for new brooms, an order for potting soil for the greenhouses, a sheaf of complaints about his Potions professor... he sighed; it seemed unlikely that Severus would ever change, but Albus needed him close, especially now; and Potions instructors were in very short supply. Perhaps he could convince Horace Slughorn to come out of retirement.

That reminded him of the need to find a new Defence professor as well, as it was obvious that Alastor would not be returning to teach next year. He was about to make a note to that effect when he realized that he was unlikely to forget about his perennial staffing problem.

Which could prove to be a bigger issue this time around, he reflected; as Fudge had dropped an unsubtle hint to the effect that if the headmaster was unable to find a qualified candidate, the minister would suggest that the ministry make an appointment to the post. Albus snorted at that, as if anyone appointed by Cornelius Fudge would themselves be qualified in anything other than sycophancy.

Who would have thought that being Headmaster of a school would involve so much _actual_ politics?

Albus usually enjoyed this position, unlike his others, which seemed to consist wholly of meetings whose entire purpose was to prevent anything from being accomplished; and arbitrating the disputes of various aristocrats, who somehow managed to act even less mature than his students.

He wished he could step down from his other roles; but by convention the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was whoever the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot was, and _that_ was not a duty he could set aside. The purist faction, and Lucius Malfoy in particular, needed to be held in check; especially now.

They'd all be flocking back to their old master, whether out of fear or loyalty mattered little. After the fall of Voldemort in nineteen eighty-one the ministry had seen only partial success in prosecuting his Death Eaters; only the most devoted or depraved had been put away. The more quiet supporters, both financial and political, remained free. Thanks to generous bribes and friendly courts, Voldemort had returned with his support structure largely intact.

And in some ways, even improved. The current Minister for Magic was for all intents and purposes _owned_ by Lucius Malfoy. It was Malfoy who had bankrolled his election campaign, Malfoy who pressured the _Daily Prophet_ into supporting the administration, and Malfoy who kept the conservative bloc of the Wizengamot in line. Fudge listened to Malfoy.

And Malfoy would undoubtedly be manipulating the minister to ignore the signs, to dismiss the evidence that would arise when Voldemort resumed his activities, to keep the magical world ignorant of the threat until it was too late. Albus _had_ to find a way to reason with Fudge; to convince him of the terrible truth facing them and to act on it.

It was a task easier said than done. Fudge was absolutely terrified at the prospect of a resurrected Dark Lord, and he wasn't alone in that fear. Much of the magical population would find it all too easy to slip into denial and ignore the problem, their collective memory of the dark times past had not diminished in strength.

Still there had to be some avenue he could pursue.

 _Perhaps appeal to_ _Fudge's_ _sense of self-preservation?_ Albus mused. Whatever means he chose to use, it would take far too much precious time; except perhaps staging a coup. He mentally filed that under ' _Plan B_ '.

There was also the issue of his own allies in the government. While he still commanded a great deal of respect, especially among the older generations, many saw him as 'past-his-prime' and even a political novice could tell that he had lost considerable credibility in the aftermath of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

The tournament had been a catastrophe of the highest order.

First and foremost, he'd been hoodwinked by a supposedly dead man who had successfully impersonated his close friend Alastor Moody for the entire year, and that was only the beginning. He had no idea what kind of information Barty Crouch Junior could have happened across and reported back to his master. The problem was made worse by Fudge's summary execution of the man before he could even be questioned.

Even Amelia Bones, the director of magical law enforcement, well known for her hardline stance towards the Death Eaters during the war, had been furious when she learned of the minister's rash action.

Albus cursed himself a fool, the signs were obvious in hindsight, but he had mistakenly attributed 'Moody's' bouts of odd behaviour to the man's usual eccentricity. He was not looking forward to the conversation – doubtless punctuated with exhortations of ' _Constant Vigilance!_ ' – that was to come when Alastor was released from St. Mungo's.

The imposter had operated freely within the school, first sabotaging the goblet of fire so as to commit Harry Potter into the tournament, subjecting him to the dangerous tasks and greatly damaging his reputation among his peers. Crouch had also directly interfered in the final task, preventing the other champions from navigating the maze to ensure that only Harry reached the trapped Triwizard cup.

Albus had to admit that part of the plan had been clever. As headmaster, only he could create a portkey that would take someone to or from the grounds of the school. But Crouch had laid a second _portus_ on the cup, allowing his spell to piggyback on the keying that would permit it to pass through the mighty Hogwarts wards. It had, at least, provided an escape route for Harry when the original portkey spell was activated.

Harry had behaved as a true Gryffindor that night; standing up to an impossible foe and even retrieving the body of his fallen classmate. Despite how horrified Albus had been by the revelation of the events in the Little Hangleton graveyard he was very proud of his favourite student. He hoped the boy did not blame himself for what happened to poor Cedric Diggory. Harry had tried to do the honourable thing and split the victory between them, only to have his noble intentions backfire horribly.

Harry. He'd had no choice but to send the boy back to the muggles.

Sirius had been livid and Albus couldn't blame him. After Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban and subsequently been proven innocent last year, Albus had hoped that Harry would soon have a real home; the indications that he had been neglected by his relatives were all too clear.

Following the revelation of Peter Pettigrew's treachery in the Shrieking Shack and the time-turned rescue operation, Albus had suggested that the escaped animagus take some time to recover before taking up the duties of being Harry's godfather and _de-facto_ guardian; to which Sirius had agreed. There were some complications with that as Sirius was still a wanted fugitive, but he would be a fugitive with or without Harry's presence, and there was little chance of him being caught at Grimmauld Place. Albus thought that Harry and Sirius spending some time together would go a long way towards helping both of them heal.

They had made plans for Harry to live with Sirius this summer, which would also have made it easier for Harry to spend time with his friends, each of whom Albus was sure could be trusted with the knowledge of Sirius' location.

But with Voldemort actually returned and at large there had been no choice. Even Sirius had eventually conceded to the necessity of keeping Harry behind the blood wards. Looking to one of the silver instruments on the shelves, he saw that it was sluggish and slow, seeming barely able to whirl itself around. The protections around Privet Drive most certainly needed a recharge.

Had they been normal wards, he could have positioned an Order member nearby periodically and allowed their presence to trigger the ward's regeneration, but the protections were tied to and dependent upon Harry alone.

His resources were being stretched terribly thin. Maintaining the watch over Privet Drive and gathering what information he could on the movements of known and suspected Death Eaters was taking a toll on his volunteers. The newly reconstituted Order was still getting up to speed with recent events, and not all of it's original membership was able or willing to return.

Albus sighed. There was so much to be done. The magical world was not nearly ready to deal with another conflict. The light side was woefully out of position and he had few ideas of how to wrest it back.

 _That_ was the unhappy truth of his situation. The great and shameful secret of his past twenty-five years. Many looked to him for guidance and leadership, especially in matters regarding Dark Lords. Albus knew his strengths, he was an exceptionally powerful wizard and well learned in magic both common and obscure; it was that which had allowed him to stand up to and defeat his former friend Gellert all those years ago. But he had merely struck the final blow, not organized the campaign. He was not a General, he simply did not have the mindset that was required to lead and win a war. Unfortunately, it seemed no one else on their side did either.

He had tried his best when thrust into a leadership role during Voldemort's reign of terror. He had formed the Order of the Phoenix as an information-gathering and logistical support group, intended to help prevent attacks on innocents and assist those who had been victimized, but not as a guerrilla fighting force.

Sadly though, that was what they had been pressured into becoming, much to their detriment. So many had been lost when they tried to take on roles they were not suited or prepared for. Most of whom he had once taught as students. Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadows, Lily Potter's friend Mary McDonald; the list went on. Molly Weasley still respected and followed him, but he knew in his heart that she had never quite forgiven him for his part in what had happened to her brothers Fabian and Gideon.

Albus was sure he would have a fight on his hands when Molly found out he was involving Harry in what was happening; she loved the boy as if he were her own. He doubted his protestations that it was the circumstances that were involving Harry, not the other way around, would go very far in assuaging the fiercely protective Weasley matriarch's displeasure.

He also knew the time was fast approaching when he would have to inform Harry of the prophecy.

Part of his mind rebelled at the idea. The same part that had prevented him from telling Harry after he'd faced the shade of Tom in the chamber of secrets, and the year before following the death of Quirrell.

He just couldn't bring himself to do it, knowing that it would destroy whatever remained of the lad's childhood. It would be a terrible burden to bear, knowing that you were the key to the final defeat of an evil madman.

He was also hesitant after discovering the apparent mental connection between the two.

Voldemort would be obsessed with the prophecy. He must know that his knowledge of it was incomplete, and would stop at nothing to discover the full wording. If he could see into Harry's mind, he could gain whatever information Harry possessed.

He might even try to possess the boy entirely, as he had with Quirrell. Although that would be difficult in the extreme against an unwilling host, it would not be impossible. Worse still, he may try to attack others through him.

While Albus was confident in his own occlumency skills, the thought of Voldemort trying to read him by proxy though Harry sickened him. He did not want Harry to be subjected to that, but that would mean distancing himself from the boy, and at a time when Harry would need his help most of all.

It might be possible that occlumency could block the connection. He did not understand the nature of it well enough to say for sure, but the headaches and general malaise that Harry reported after feeling Voldemort's mind were consistent with a focused legilimency attack. If Harry were to acquire general proficiency in shielding his mind, Albus would feel a great deal more comfortable confiding in him.

The trouble though was that the only person Albus trusted to teach Harry that was Severus, and _he_ was unlikely to be able to provide the necessary calm and patience that occlumency training required. There was the possibility that Sirius had some skill in the subject, the Blacks being an old and powerful pureblood family; and as a trusted figure to Harry he would be well suited to teaching him that particular art. Albus would ask when he next met with Sirius.

If so, he might move Harry to headquarters as early as mid-July.

Perhaps he should look into putting Grimmauld Place under a _f_ _idelius_. That would offer a level of security comparable to the wards around Privet drive; he made a note to check into that. He still had the source materials he'd loaned to Lily Potter all those years ago.

Feeling better now that he had the beginnings of a plan taking shape, Albus sat back in his chair and reached over to the dish at the edge of the desk for a lemon drop.

Then the explosion hit.

At least, that was the term that came to mind when he felt the wave of magic erupt from somewhere inside the castle.

Albus shot to his feet, upsetting the bowl of lemon drops and sending them skittering across the floor. With parchmentwork, politicking, and planning forgotten, he raced for the exit to his office and the stairs beyond. Reaching out with his senses, he queried the wards of the school. The 'explosion' had overloaded some of the charms that told him when there was danger, but he noticed the gap in his senses was mostly centred around a room on the ground floor. Whatever was happening, it was happening there.

Hurrying down the spiral stairs and moving past the stone gargoyle that leapt aside at his rapid approach, he headed in the direction of the tower's stairs. There was something familiar about the action.

 _Deja-vu_ , he thought, _n_ _ow what does this remind me of?_

As he neared the stairs of the tower, they stopped their random meanderings and shot into a position to allow him the quickest descent. Being the headmaster had its advantages. Taking the steps two at a time, he mentally planned his route to the-

 _Now_ he remembered! He knew what was significant about that location; and why hurrying to investigate it seemed so familiar. That was the same room in which he had placed the Mirror of Erised; the last obstacle in his ill-fated attempt to safeguard Nicolas' philosopher's stone.

 _But w_ _hat could have happened to the Mirror?_ he wondered. It had to have been the Mirror, nothing else in the castle was powerful enough to release that kind magical maelstrom.

The wards were slowly recovering – like vision clearing after seeing a bright light – enough to determine that there was no danger. Albus slowed as he came to a corner, then stopped altogether as a new piece of information came to him. There was someone in the room!

He resumed his journey with new haste; rounding the corner in which stood a ten-foot tall suit of armour, he nearly ran into Flitwick who was heading in the opposite direction.

"Albus!" the Charms professor called upon seeing him, "I was just looking for you. I think something's happened..." he said worriedly.

"I sensed it as well Filius. I'm looking into it now." Albus paused and considered. The castle wards did not indicate an immediate threat, but recent events had reminded him to the virtues of caution. Cheerful demeanour aside, Flitwick had been a duelling champion, and could be downright dangerous when necessary. A second, friendly, wand nearby could prove most helpful. Reaching a decision he continued, "Filius, I've reason to suspect that there is an intruder within the castle. I'm on my way to investigate; while I don't sense any hostile intent, could I impose upon you to accompany me just in case?" he asked.

At this, Flitwick's expression turned serious. With a grim nod, he turned in the same direction and started moving.

They walked swiftly, Flitwick easily keeping pace with the headmaster's long strides, despite his small stature. Coming to a seemingly blank patch of wall, Dumbledore stopped, drew his wand and tapped on one of the large grey stones.

No one knew exactly how many secret passages there were threading their way through the castle. Some were only accessible at certain times, or to certain individuals, or only when absolutely necessary, or seemingly whenever the castle felt like it.

This one however, the headmaster knew well. The room it led to was well hidden, near forgotten, and for good reason. It had once been a safe place for the study and practice of rituals, but with such magic falling into disrepute, the room had been closed off.

Glancing back at Flitwick, Dumbledore motioned that they had arrived. The head of Ravenclaw drew his wand and silenced their feet with a single wordless spell. Nodding in appreciation, he stepped into the opening. Crouching as he entered the passage that was more tunnel than hallway, he crept cautiously towards the epicentre of the magical shockwave that had torn through his school.

The room that now held the Mirror of Erised had clearly not been touched since Harry had faced the unfortunate professor Quirrell three years ago. Circular, with seven stone pillars surrounding a sunken centre, the room's ceiling arced gracefully upwards into a flattened dome. A light dust hung in the stale air and covered the floor. Signs of an old struggle were still visible near a discarded length of purple cloth.

The first thing that drew Dumbledore's attention was the Mirror itself. It was facing slightly towards him at an oblique angle; the ornate gilded frame had been blasted away into lines of splinters and dust extending from either edge of the Mirror and a small pile directly around it, leaving only the solid rectangle of the Mirror itself hovering, preternaturally still, just above the floor.

But it was the _surface_ of the Mirror that caught Dumbledore's breath. It no longer reflected the room as a mirror ought. Within the confines of that once perfect surface, plainly visible, was another room entirely. Had he not known there was supposed to be a mirror there, he would have thought that a hole had simply opened in the world itself. What seemed to be sunlight poured out of the Mirror into the dim room, illuminating a swath of dust that floated in the still air.

A slight movement on the other side of the room shifted his focus and Albus got his first glimpse of the intruder. The tall man was facing away from him, in dark blue robes he stood with an easy, confident posture, hands clasped behind his back, looking upwards at the tiled designs that patterned the walls.

Flitwick moved from beside him and took up a position across the room from which he would be able to provide both covering and cross- fire; he pointed his wand at the man and nodded to Dumbledore.

Facing the man, but keeping his wand at his side, Albus cleared his throat loudly.

Hearing the noise the man turned towards him and upon seeing the headmaster, his face lit up in a friendly smile.

"Professor Dumbledore!" he exclaimed happily.

Glancing towards Flitwick, Albus saw him mirroring his own puzzled expression. Returning his gaze, the small professor just shrugged. He looked back towards the man who had just stepped into the heart of his school from nowhere.

Seeing his confusion, a look of understanding came into the stranger's eyes, and his smile took on a wistful mien.

In an expectant tone much like he would use towards a student caught in an act of mischief, Dumbledore spoke: "Perhaps you might favour us with an explanation?"

His eyes shining with amusement, in a cheeky voice the interloper replied, "of course sir, where would you like me to begin?"

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Author's Notes:

Fair Warning: This story will include an Original Character (OC) in a significant, albeit secondary, role. I thought about making the traveller an alternate version of Harry, but that would not allow me to take the story in the direction I want it to go. Also, I'm not really comfortable making massive changes to canon characters; I think it's one thing to interpret a character, another to completely rewrite them. While I have no personal objection to such – we should be allowed to write the stories we want after all – if you do, you basically _are_ creating an OC, just with the same name and appearance.

\- LJSi


	2. A Bad Start to Summer

Chapter Two – A Bad Start to Summer

Harry Potter sat at the desk in the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive. The room was largely empty, the only other pieces of furniture in the room were his bed and a shabby set of drawers. The walls were unadorned, the floor bare hardwood. If a casual visitor were to look in while Harry was away, they would likely assume the room was entirely unused. Which was exactly how his aunt and uncle wanted it, with no tangible evidence to remind them of his existence.

The window was open as far as it would go in a futile attempt to coax a breeze into the room and ease the sweltering July heat; instead, the sounds of younger children playing in the nearby park floated in. It wouldn't be long before Dudley and his gang moved in and drove them off.

Hedwig, his snowy owl, perched on the edge of the desk, dozing the afternoon away; the summer sun gleaming off her white feathers, making her shine so brightly Harry couldn't look at her without squinting.

Harry looked down at the empty surface of the desk and let out a sighing breath, his summer holidays had started about as well as his previous ones, which was to say, not very well at all.

His uncle, red-faced and puffing, had shown up alone at King's Cross station to pick him up; he'd waited impatiently while Harry loaded his trunk into the boot of the car by himself, not even looking in Harry's direction.

The trip back to Privet Drive had passed in uneasy silence, Vernon not saying a word but occasionally grumbling at the other cars, all while gripping the steering wheel so tightly Harry swore he heard it creak.

Upon their arrival back at the house, his uncle continued to ignore him, simply hauling his massive bulk from the driver's seat and slamming the door shut, not even sparing his nephew a glance. After manhandling his heavy trunk from the car, Harry dragged it upstairs to his room, neither seeing or hearing his relatives.

The days had gone by slowly, with Harry barely venturing out of his room. He hadn't even been assigned his usual ridiculous amount of chores. As welcome as it was to be ignored by his so-called family for a week, Harry couldn't help but feel that something unpleasant was brewing. He hoped that the strange tension permeating the house didn't blow up in a spectacular fashion, or like his aunt Marge.

Harry honestly wasn't sure he could handle his relative's usual brand of vitriol this time around, his own problems loomed over him, anxiety and frustration weighing heavily on his mind.

The nightmares had come every time he went to sleep. The flash of sickly green light striking Cedric, his sightless eyes staring up at him. Voldemort rising out of the cauldron with Harry still tied to that gravestone, the agony coursing through him under the madman's _cruciatus_ curse. Even the glimpse of his lost parents did little to dull the pain of the images of that flooded into his mind every night, causing him to start awake in a cold sweat despite the smothering heat of the summer.

When his subconscious got bored with that, it put up highlights of the tournament. Except these times the dragon had gotten him, or the grindylows in the Black Lake had dragged him down to the bottom, or that thrice-damned blast-ended skrewt in the maze... that thing was nightmare-worthy all on its own. Once, he'd even dreamed that Sirius had been caught by Fudge after coming down from Dumbledore's office; and had been kissed by a dementor that was dressed in an evening gown as if to attend the Yule ball...

The whole fiasco of the tournament had been just about the worst experience of Harry's life. Entered against his will in a contest intended for students with three years of study on him was a harrowing ordeal to say the least. He'd gotten past the dragon on nerve and a little luck, although it did give him a bit of pride to be able to honestly say that he could outfly a _dragon_.

The trial in the lake had been straightforward enough; the grindylows had been a nuisance but one easily dealt with. He had mentally thanked Lupin for his excellent teaching the previous year. Harry was also grateful to Moaning Myrtle, as she had pointed him in the direction of the merfolk village; and he would have been unlikely to find it in time on his own. Upon reaching it, he'd somehow managed to intimidate the merpeople enough to let him take little Gabrielle as well as Ron. Finding out the hostages would not have been left at the bottom of the lake to die was a relief; although really, he should have known that all along.

But Harry had little doubt that without the fake Moody's 'help', he would not have made it to the cup. Which was of course, the whole reason he was there in the first place. The maze had been enough of an obstacle on its own, the oppressive, smothering atmosphere created within had genuinely frightened him, and that wasn't even counting the creatures that roamed throughout it.

It really hadn't been fair to the others. They had entered the tournament hoping to compete at least reasonably fairly, only to get caught up in the whirlwind of chaos that seemed to stalk Harry wherever he went. Viktor Krum was placed under the _imperious_ curse and made to torture Fleur, who had then been unable to fight off the devil's snare. And they had gotten off lucky, not like Cedric...

Not for the first time Harry wished he'd not helped him and let him share the 'victory'.

Dumbledore had not said much to him after the third task. After 'Moody' had been unmasked as Mr Crouch's supposedly dead son, and confessed to everything he had done that year, the headmaster had taken Harry to his office where Sirius was waiting.

His godfather had implored Dumbledore to let Harry get some rest and recover before recounting what had happened after the portkey had whisked him away but the headmaster had insisted, and Harry could understand; it was important to get the story out as quickly as possible.

He'd told them about what had happened in the graveyard, stumbling over the fresh and painful memories. How Wormtail had taken his blood to resurrect Voldemort, and how the newly re-embodied dark lord had summoned his followers, at least a dozen of them arriving within moments.

Harry told them about the mockery of a duel that Voldemort had forced him into, and how their wands had then connected, his enemy's then spilling out the ghosts of his victims. He'd been saddened to learn that they were really just echos, but even hearing his parents voices had left him with more than he'd had before.

One curious bit of information Dumbledore had shared with him was the fact that the core of his wand and Voldemort's had come from the same creature, the headmaster's own phoenix, Fawkes. That was why they had seemingly locked to each other. Harry reflected that the bizarre coincidence had probably saved his life, although it was another disturbing connection between them; and he _still_ didn't know why Voldemort was after him in the first place.

There had to be a reason. Dumbledore had admitted as much that time in the infirmary back in his first year after confronting professor Quirrell, but he'd refused to say what it was.

Despite Harry relating the events of that night, Minister Fudge had been no help whatsoever. Convinced that Harry was delusional, he had just tossed the sack of prize money at him and left; but not before dismissing Crouch Junior's possible testimony and having him kissed by a dementor. Harry truly did not understand why Fudge would do that; last year after what happened with aunt Marge, he had basically laughed the whole thing off and made sure Harry's record was made clean. Why then would he refuse to help when something major was happening?

Harry had tried to give the tournament winnings to Cedric's parents, who _had_ believed him and thanked him for bringing their son's body home, but they had refused to accept the bag of galleons. Harry couldn't blame them, he didn't want it himself. Ultimately, he'd given it to Fred and George to start their joke shop; at least that way _something_ positive would come from the whole mess.

Of course, the tasks themselves had not been the only awful part of the tournament.

The pointing, whispering and stares from the other students had nearly driven him mad. It was like second year all over again; only this time their hostility was much more open. He couldn't understand why people paid so much attention to him; didn't they have lives of their own?

Leaving Hogwarts had actually been a perverse sort of relief, considering what he usually thought of returning to Privet Drive. The other students had given him a wide berth, not knowing what to think. All they'd seen was Harry appearing in the arena with Cedric's body. No one had actually come out and accused him of murdering his competitor, but he could see the suspicions swirling around in their eyes. The rumours and uncertainty surrounding him made everything worse.

The train ride home had been tense to say the least. The Hufflepuffs refused to be even in the same general vicinity as him; the ones he'd seen on the train nearly bolted past the compartment where he and his friends were sitting for the ride back to London.

They were still with him at least, although with one of them it had been a close run thing...

Harry had sworn up and down to Ron that he hadn't entered the tournament. He just wouldn't _listen_. In his stubbornness he had refused to believe that his friend wasn't an attention-seeking cheater. That wasn't just frustrating, it had _hurt_. He was used to most of the other student's attitudes; he had _expected_ most of the school to turn on him that night when his name popped out of the goblet, but _Ron_?

Ron had been with him from the very beginning, from his very first day in the magical world. They had shared a dorm for three years, conversations both meaningful and mundane, hopes and fears and everything in between.

Ron had gone with him to rescue Hermione from the troll; granted he was the reason she'd needed rescuing in the first place, but no one could have predicted a _troll_ getting in; and it was his spellwork that had finished it off while Harry was clinging to its back for dear life. Ron had gone with him to keep Quirrell from getting the philosopher's stone, until he'd been terribly hurt by the chess set. He'd stood by him through the whole parselmouth thing and heir-of-Slytherin nonsense and even followed him into the Chamber of Secrets, or would have if Lockhart hadn't turned out to be a obliviating fraud as well as a useless hairdo.

Harry had also noticed Ron sticking close by throughout the whole of third-year when everyone thought that Sirius Black was out to murder him. Ron had never actually come out and said it, but Harry knew he was there to protect him as best he could. He'd been there in the shrieking shack when Pettigrew was revealed as the real traitor, and Harry had no doubt he would have helped to rescue Sirius if Sirius hadn't accidentally broken his leg.

Ron knew Harry as well as anyone, and he still hadn't believed Harry when he said he'd been set up in the tournament. Hermione had tried to explain Ron's behaviour, and he understood well enough. Ron had confessed to him early on about how he despaired of measuring up to his brothers, and Harry was all too well aware that the attention he received could easily push Ron into his shadow.

Harry could recognize that he hadn't really helped matters, he could have handled Ron's intransigence with more tact; but his own temper had been wearing thin and Ron's point of view just didn't seem to mean much to Harry at the time. Ron had come around after the first task with the dragon though; and he had, in a roundabout way, tried to help. It had been difficult to forgive him, but Harry didn't want to lose one of his first real friends. One of the two people who saw him as _just Harry_.

Hermione had at least believed him, and had also been frustrated by the third member of the trio's childishness. She though, had tried to keep Harry from flying off the handle at the red-headed prat.

Hermione had been like a rock to him. A known quality he could depend on for anything. She had always been there to help; teaching him spells to help with the tasks and calming him down when all he wanted to do was jump up and start throwing hexes at people. He could not imagine how he could have survived the year without her; or come to think of it, any of his previous years either.

Harry doubted he would have gotten past Snape's potions puzzle in first year without her. It had also been Hermione who figured out the creature in the Chamber of Secrets had been a basilisk. Harry thanked whatever powers existed that she had thought to use that mirror to look around the corners.

It had been her time turner that had enabled them to rescue Sirius as well.

Hermione was there to help him with his homework and studying, although even she had admitted that Harry was better in the practical application of magic, his spells coming easily and powerfully. Harry thought she was just overthinking things, and that if she could learn to let her magic come naturally, she'd turn out better than him.

Even the one instance that they had truly quarrelled, over the Firebolt Sirius had sent him, had been about helping him. He regretted that now, she had been absolutely correct in having the teachers check the broomstick over before he used it.

He'd been mortified when he hadn't recognized Hermione at first when he saw her at the Yule ball. He could sort of understand why though. That night she _had_ looked stunningly pretty – Skeeter had gotten that one thing right at least – and while he was certainly aware that she was a girl, she had always been a friend to him, the mental role he had unconsciously cast her in didn't really allow for thinking of her any other way.

Ron had noticed her as well, although his reaction was far worse. Accusing her of somehow betraying them by going as Viktor's date was bad enough, but he'd also moaned about it all night to Harry and their two dates, Parvati and Padma. Ron's appalling behaviour had driven the twin sisters away in a snit and nearly set Harry off on him again; contributing greatly to his own misery that night.

But despite all that he had done, Harry was still glad to have Ron as a friend. He suspected that would need them more than ever next term. His years at Hogwarts had always included something going horribly pear-shaped, and he had no reason to believe that things would improve anytime soon.

He wanted to write to Sirius, to get some news about what was going on, but he was reluctant to do anything that might set off the gathering storm with the Dursleys; having owls flying back and forth would certainly lead to a confrontation if they were seen.

Talking to Padfoot wasn't always helpful, but it did cheer him up. Maybe he could work out a system to keep the Dursleys from finding out. On the other hand, it was likely that Sirius was busy working with Dumbledore, gathering up the 'old crowd' that the headmaster had mentioned.

Harry hoped they were prepared, whoever they were. Voldemort was back and people needed to know. He hoped Dumbledore had a plan for dealing with the situation; the fact that the dark lord was back and running around free was certainly contributing to his stress.

Also troubling was that he had yet to receive any letters from his friends. Ron's lack of correspondence was nothing unusual; he usually only sent a few short messages over the summer, consisting mainly of 'Hey mate, how's it goin'?'

But not getting a letter from Hermione was strange. Summers before, she had written Harry almost immediately, telling him of her parents and what her summer plans were; usually in exquisite detail filling several pages. Last year in his return note, he'd added that he had given her an 'O' on her 'What-I'm-Going-To-Do-Over-My-Summer-Holidays' essay.

Harry wondered briefly if another half-mad house elf could be involved.

Having nothing else to do for the time being, he opened his trunk and retrieved his summer assignments. Since his uncle had not locked his trunk in his former bedroom under the stairs, this was the first year he'd actually be able to do them over the summer, instead of a frantic week in the library and all-night sessions in the common room. Hermione would be pleased.

Looking over the papers he read the requirements from each of his teachers and stopped upon seeing the one from Flitwick, his mouth quirking into a smile.

 _Describe the theory and application of summoning charms._

Well he could knock that one out in an hour or two, having mastered the higher-level _accio_ for the first task of the tournament last year.

He flipped absently through the others; Transfiguration, Herbology, History – as if anyone would bother with that one – and picked out the Potions assignment. He might as well get it out of the way, even if Snape was as likely as not to just burn it without reading it.

He pulled his texts from his trunk and set himself to expounding on the properties of various ingredients and their interactions.

After a few hours of writing, punctuated with some snacks he'd saved in his trunk, Harry wrung the stiffness from his hands and stretched. Deciding that was enough homework for one day, or week, he cleaned off his quill and capped the ink, putting everything back in his trunk for later; and snuck out to brush his teeth.

He returned to his room, passing the staircase where he heard the eleven 'o clock news blaring in the living room downstairs. He didn't know how his relatives weren't deaf from having the volume up so loud all the time. He carefully shut his door, pulled off his clothes, and lay down in bed; with a "goodnight Hedwig", he waited for sleep to claim him.

* * *

 _Harry seemed to float through the tunnel-like corridor._

 _It was cold. The polished black stones that made up the walls were cut to unnervingly perfect squares, the floor unnaturally smooth. The walls were punctuated with square columns every few meters cut from the same dark rock as the walls, meeting above him in a low arch._

 _At the end of the hall, an imposing door stood closed before him, a round knob sitting right in its centre._

 _He drifted towards the door, but it seemed to retreat from him, moving away just as fast as he approached, keeping its distance._

 _Frustration welled up inside him. He wanted what was behind the door. It was important._

 _He wasn't sure how, but he must have gotten through the door, as he then found himself in a long room that seemed to have no ceiling._

 _Shelves upon shelves, miles of them, with no apparent end stretched off into the distance._

 _Harry drifted past them, focused on one in particular. Reaching his destination, he looked upon the Orb that sat on it._

 _It wasn't anything special. It was just another glass sphere in a room with millions of them, but it was vital._

 _He moved towards it, intent on his goal – he_ wanted _it – he_ needed _it – he would_ take _it._

 _The orb before him seemed to fill up his entire mind. It was pictured in excruciating clarity. The roundness of it piercing his heart, its cool touch burning his hand..._

 _The sheer intensity of the gestalt was becoming unbearable. The_ Orb _!–_

Harry woke, his eyes flying open, his heart pounding, a dull ache gripping his forehead. He laid there for a time, breathing deeply, attempting to get his pulse under control. Eventually he calmed down and looked to the side. The old wind-up clock on the desk next to the bed showed it was a quarter past two in the morning.

He rose and crept carefully to the bathroom. Reaching the sink, he twisted the faucet in a quick, practised motion – open it too slowly and the pipes would shudder – and put his head beside the spigot to drink. Thirst quenched, he put his hand under the cool water then held it to his forehead, hoping to relieve some of the aching in his scar.

He snapped the water off, returned to his room and sat down on the bed, staring at the wall that bounded his room a mere meter away, the orange light of the streetlamp outside his window glaring harshly off of the bare whiteness.

That dream had been strange, he had never seen a place like that before. It was without a doubt Voldemort-related, every blasted _time_ his scar hurt it was because of Voldemort. But it wasn't like the visions he'd had the previous summer, where it seemed like he was actually seeing through his nemesis' eyes. It still had that strange, half-real dreamlike quality to it.

It was almost as if he was seeing one of _Voldemort's_ dreams.

The thought was a whole new level of disturbing.

That was it; Dursleys be damned, he was writing a letter to Sirius tomorrow. He'd tell him about the dream and ask him to let Dumbledore know as well. There had to be something he could do; he wanted to move in with Sirius like he had offered last year but he knew he'd still be stuck with his relatives until after his birthday at least.

He laid back down on his thin mattress. It was going to be a long, bad start of summer.

* * *

Author's Notes:

A shortish chapter of canon review from Harry's point-of-view. It's something I do to help me get into the minds of the characters and set a tone for the story. Like stretching before exercising, it's a part of my process. Hermione, Ron and Sirius get something similar, although those are shorter and will be seen after we meet the mysterious visitor next week...

\- LJSi


	3. A Meeting to Remember

Chapter Three – A Meeting to Remember

" _Of course sir, where would you like me to begin?"_

Albus couldn't help the soft chuckle that escaped when he heard that. Somehow this man knew him – going by the easy familiarity he spoke with – despite the fact that the headmaster had never before laid eyes upon him.

"Begin at the beginning, of course." Albus told him, the twinkle of amusement returning to his eyes.

"Right then." The man replied, twinkling right back at him.

"Let me then start by introducing myself. My name is Simon Wilde, Hogwarts class of 'ninety-eight, and former Ravenclaw." He added upon seeing professor Flitwick, who was keeping his distance, his wand still pointed at the strange visitor.

"Hello professor Flitwick!" Wilde called out with a cheery wave, seemingly unconcerned with his pseudo-former head-of-house's less than warm welcome.

 _Class of 'ninety-eight? How was that possible?_ There was only one method of time travel that Albus knew for certain existed, but time-turners could only reach back six hours at most. This man was clearly in his early thirties, which would have put him from at least fifteen years in the future.

Of course there were rumours of other means of time travel, all of them described as having catastrophic consequences; he remembered reading about the mess the Department of Mysteries had made once the year of his own graduation. But this man stood before him with an air of easy confidence, not what one would expect to see from someone meddling in the second most powerful and mysterious force in the universe.

But even that could not explain why Albus had never seen him before. While he could certainly be said to pay more attention to some students than others, he would not have forgotten one _entirely_ ; especially not one who, by his estimation, should still be attending his school.

Well, the best way to get an answer was to ask a question. He decided to start with the most obvious:

"How is it that you emerged from the Mirror of Erised?"

Wilde looked confused for a moment. "Erase-ed? Oh, the old inscription! No, that's not its name. It doesn't have a name that I know of. Although whoever created it probably called it something. It _could_ have been 'Erised' I suppose..."

"Well I think that for the moment what it's called matters less than what it is and what it does," Albus interrupted, attempting to steer the man back on topic.

"Oh! Right, of course, what it does. The Mirror acts as a gateway between world-lines," Wilde stated simply. Albus simply stared at him.

"Expanding on that," he continued, as Dumbledore just looked blankly at him, "the Mirror can take us to what is, from our perspective, unrealized realities. Worlds that could have been, had past events unfolded differently. Of course, to you, in this reality, _my_ world is unrealized. A what-if, a path not taken," Wilde explained.

"I'm sorry Mr Wilde, but I don't quite follow," Albus said. "What do you mean by 'unrealized reality'?"

The visitor considered the question for a short time, tapping his cheek thoughtfully.

"Well, suppose for a moment that you were walking down the main street in Hogsmeade, and decided to browse through Scrivenshafts, instead of Honeyduke's. In doing so, you encountered a former student of yours and had lunch together, your conversations culminating in her accepting the recently vacated position of Potions instructor.

"Now a professor, she tutors another young witch who later would go on to create a cure for lycanthropy, crediting her former teacher for her excellence in potions.

"That simple decision, made on a whim and seemingly inconsequential, resulted in a very different world than what could have been, had you turned right instead of left that day in the village."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, it was beginning to make a sort of sense. Choices made, to take one road or the other, each leading to different destinations. It also explained why he had not recognized the visitor; for whatever reason, Simon Wilde had never existed in the world he knew.

"Of course, there's nothing to suggest that you could not have met her later that day, and the end result may have been the same. Indeed, time seems to have a certain flow, pulling events into regular patterns. I suppose one might call it fate, but I don't think there is any agency behind it." Wilde continued his explanation.

"These patterns in time form the major world-lines; there are some variations within them, tiny differences, but essentially the same. It is within these ambiguities that time-turners work by the way. Since it is impossible to exist in a place without affecting it, a time-turner will keep its user within their own world-line; using the _elasticity_ of time, allowing events to restructure themselves into familiar outcomes."

Albus was stunned. He had often wondered exactly how a time-turner could work, and still prevent changes from being made to the past. The seeming paradox wasn't a paradox at all, once you looked at it from a different perspective.

"There are limitations of course, as time seems to work in segments, that is why a time-turner is restricted to at most one-quarter of a day; it does not have the means to pass through the next-higher node on a world-line..." Wilde was going off on a tangent again, now gesturing as he attempted to explain the convoluted nature of reality itself.

"So the Mirror..." Albus prompted.

"Can be used to travel to those other world-lines, yes."

"I believe I am beginning to understand," Albus said. "This explains how it is that you apparently know both of us, while we have never before seen you."

"Yes sir. At some point in the past, something here must have happened differently, our world-lines forked, and I was never born, or at least, never came to Hogwarts. It could be that my parents never met, or something even farther back. The possibilities are beyond counting.

"Whatever it was, that divergence couldn't have occurred more than about forty-six years ago, as that seems to be the limit for travel. World-lines that branch off before that are simply inaccessible by the Mirror."

Albus thought that this could be a fascinating discussion, but there were more pressing issues at the moment.

"So, in your world, you attended Hogwarts, and graduated in nineteen ninety-eight," Albus confirmed.

"That's right. _Mostly_ at the top of my classes too; I faced some excellent competition."

Albus had an inkling of just who that competition might be. "Permit me to guess: one Miss Hermione Granger?"

Wilde looked both surprised and pleased. "Yes, that was her. We were more or less evenly matched, our final marks in Charms were identical. It's good to see some things never change," he added with a laugh.

Flitwick had finally lowered his wand and was moving nearer, he still kept Wilde in front of him however.

"Have you travelled to many other worlds?" Albus asked.

"So far, this will be my eighth trip through the Looking-Glass," Wilde replied, smiling. Albus laughed at the visitor's answer, now certain of his familiarity with another version of himself.

"I travel hoping to learn more about my world by comparing it to others; or learn about anything really, I've made some startling connections that never would have occurred to me before."

Wilde paused, looking absently at the edges of the hole in the world.

"I suppose that when it comes right down to it, _t_ _hat_ is the what the 'Mirror of Erised' does. It's a Mirror for the entire world, not an individual."

"Remarkable," Albus said at last, truly fascinated. "And you have unravelled its true purpose. More impressive still, have managed to use it in such a fashion."

He turned back to the Mirror, still open to a large, open, and sun-lit room; wide benches topped with papers and potions equipment, a large astrolabe hung in a far corner near a fantastic telescope that could only have been of muggle origin.

"I, and many others, believed that the Mirror was a means to discover one's own nature, to see the things one desired above all others, even if they were hidden from the viewer's conscious mind."

"The Albus Dumbledore of my world believed similarly, I can give you my best explanation of it," Wilde offered, moving to stand beside him in front of the Mirror.

"When we look into the Mirror, not knowing how to use it, it shows us a glimpse of a world it thinks we want to visit. I think it's trying to help in a way, to show us how to direct it to the place we want to go."

"How long did it take you to discover this?" Albus asked.

"I had been working on it off and on for nearly two years before making any kind of real progress. I first came to posses the Mirror after you – that is, your counterpart in my world – had loaned it to me from the archives of the Chief Warlock. I had some difficulties with it initially, as it never quite seemed to work for me."

"You did not see your heart's desire?"

"Not exactly no; I saw many things, desirable and otherwise. Sometimes I saw myself as a different person, sometimes in different circumstances, and sometimes I saw nothing at all."

"Dumbledore had explained the prevailing theory of the Mirror to me, but it didn't take long for me to discount it. I'd done a number of experiments you see, occlumency did nothing to prevent the Mirror from showing the viewer something, if the Mirror looked into a person's mind, an occlumens should have been able to fool it, but they could not."

Wilde walked around to the other side of the Mirror and Albus followed. Upon the back of the Mirror were a series of glowing circles and lines, moving in rhythms that the eye could not properly follow, sometimes seeming to sink into the Mirror only to resurface in other places, writhing, separating, joining.

"Further examination of the enchantments on the Mirror revealed a _staggering_ amount of high-order arithmetical imperatives, these functions correlating to dimensions beyond the three we commonly encounter; concepts that only advanced Muggle mathematics can adequately describe, our spoken language simply lacking the requisite vocabulary."

Albus was starting to think the problem wasn't so much that there were no words, but rather no _concepts_ for the things that Wilde was trying to explain.

"To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how some Magical could have created this Mirror centuries ago, as not even the Muggles had this level of understanding then; and the magical world is far behind them in this area. Even NEWT-level arithmancy doesn't get as far as basic calculus."

"Much of our lore has been lost over the millenia," Albus observed sadly.

"That is true," Wilde agreed. "Some friends and I are researching everything we can, experimenting with things, trying to understand the fundamental nature of magic. It's one of the reasons we travel.

"Now actually using the Mirror in this fashion is... non-trivial. It was actually one of them, my 'competitor' in fact, that finally figured out how to do it. Still, it requires several hours for us to configure the Mirror for travel."

"Us?" Albus asked, "who are the others?"

A sudden squeak from Flitwick startled both of them and they looked in his direction. "Miss Granger? Is that you?" he asked.

Albus quickly moved back to the front side of the Mirror to see a young woman about Wilde's age standing just on the other side of the threshold. He blinked and realized that despite looking about fifteen years older, she was none other than Hermione Granger.

"Hello professor Flitwick," she called out cheerfully. "Yes, it's me; although it's actually been _Mrs Potter_ for some years now."

In an instant, all pondering on the arcane and abstract was dropped from his mind as Albus was brought forcibly back to the moment, hope suddenly blooming in his heart. If Harry had married Ms Granger in that world – _delightful!_ – he had obviously survived his confrontation with Voldemort. Maybe it would be possible to speak to him, to get some ideas on how _his_ Harry might proceed.

That other Harry might even know how Tom had somehow survived the destruction of his physical body, a question that had been bothering Albus for nearly fifteen years now.

"Simon," the older Hermione called, "are you there?"

"Right here." Wilde responded, coming back around to stand in front of the portal.

"Theo's bringing over the kit shortly," she reported; "how is everything on your end?"

"As well as can be expected. No one here knows me, which is becoming discouraging; but as per usual, they know _you_ , Miss Brightest-Witch-Of-The-Multiverse."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but her lips were quirked into a smug smile.

"Hello Miss Granger – excuse me – Mrs Potter, it's lovely to see you again," Albus told her.

"And you Headmaster. You're looking very well."

"Thank you my dear. Do you travel through the Mirror as well?" Albus asked.

"Not usually, no. But we're still fairly new to this whole thing. May I?" She gestured to the opening.

"Of course; please do," Albus invited.

Hermione stepped through the threshold of the Mirror as easily as if between two rooms; she looked around curiously at the room briefly, then went over to greet Flitwick.

"It's wonderful to meet you again professor," she leaned down slightly to shake Flitwick's hand; he took it, finally relaxing his guard.

"So how is it you came to be working with Mr Wilde here?" Albus enquired.

"Simon and I were friends all throughout our years at Hogwarts, we actually met in Diagon Alley while getting our supplies for our first year," Hermione told him.

"I accidentally knocked her over coming out of Ollivander's," Wilde supplied. "I was rather absorbed in contemplation of my new wand and didn't see her coming toward me."

"He apologized profusely of course, and we spent the rest of the afternoon chatting about attending Hogwarts. We were eventually sorted into different houses, Simon going to Ravenclaw and myself to Gryffindor, but we maintained our friendship and usually worked together in the classes our houses shared."

"We enjoyed a friendly rivalry, duelling for the top spots in our classes. Hermione usually won, but it was close." Wilde asserted.

"Of course, Simon had to counter my higher marks with his 'special' projects," Hermione shook her head, "he seemed to do something impossible roughly once a month or so."

It was Wilde's turn to wear a smug grin, "I once impressed professor _Snape,_ " he declared proudly.

"A remarkable achievement indeed," Albus said, smiling at the easy back-and-forth between them, recognizing the signs of a long friendship.

"After school, I did a Charms apprenticeship and joined Simon and Theo with their research. Together we're trying to come to a systematic understanding of magic; right now I'm mainly working with Theo on Arithmancy but I still help Simon out with his 'mad scientist' endeavours. Like this Mirror." Hermione said, gesturing to it. "I'm stronger in the purely academic areas, but Simon has a certain– creativity. It's a good balance," she concluded.

"All in all, I think we make an excellent team." Wilde added.

"Well it is wonderful to see you will have become so successful," Albus told her.

The two travellers fell silent and exchanged uncertain glances; Wilde looked back intently at Dumbledore, concern etched on his face.

"Professor," Hermione started nervously, "what is today's full date?"

Something was obviously wrong. The older version of Ms Granger – _Mrs Potter_ he corrected himself – was also looking at him closely and had bitten her lip in a familiar anxious manner. Perhaps the Mirror was not meant to take them through time...

"It is the seventh of July, nineteen ninety-five," he told them.

At this the two dimension travellers stood still. Utterly still. As still as the Mirror itself if such a thing could be imagined.

"That's..." she swallowed thickly, "that's never happened before."

"The Mirror has never taken you through time before?" Albus was surprised; he would have assumed that after moving between _worlds_ , a simple thing like _time_ should be no trouble.

"No. Never," Wilde frowned thoughtfully. "Everything seemed to be fine; there were no difficulties getting the Mirror to open..."

"Simon, we should go back," Hermione declared immediately. "We don't know what's happened. It might not be possible to return if the Mirror closes in this configuration."

"It should be," Wilde mused, "why wouldn't it?"

"Because we're somehow in the past. Just by being there we're changing things. The present we left is the future now." She said insistently.

"No, this can't be _our_ past," Wilde told her. "I don't exist here; or at the very least, my counterpart never attended Hogwarts. We're still in another world, we're just in the _past_ of that other world. Oddness aside, I don't think anything is really wrong."

Hermione huffed, unconvinced.

Dumbledore watched as Wilde drew a wand from his right sleeve and waved it over the Mirror. A complicated pattern of circles and arcs formed in glowing lines. He pulled his wand back and the pattern twisted, turning around vertically to reveal more layers of interwoven blue circles; he twisted his wand again, frowning thoughtfully as the pattern rotated and expanded; this time a jagged red filament appeared, terminating on the edges of two of the larger circles.

"Ah, there's the problem," he announced. "We attempted to reach a world that was no longer in range."

Hermione stepped up to the patterns floating slowly through the air and started poking at them with her own wand. "No longer in range..."

"What does that mean?" Albus queried, hoping that the situation wasn't too serious.

Hermione turned to face him. "It means the world we had intended to visit has moved beyond the reach of the Mirror, or that it no longer exists at all."

"Mr Wilde mentioned something to the effect that the Mirror can only be used to travel so 'far'. Is that related to your current predicament?" Albus asked her.

"Yes sir, I think it is; the intended destination was too far outside our probability. Essentially it means that the most likely possible futures of this world are completely incompatible with our own; but the Mirror still made the connection by opening a path to the closest point between them. Which is right now."

"That still doesn't make much sense though. In that situation why would the Mirror open at all? Or why it wouldn't just arc to another, nearby, world. It's done that before," Wilde pointed out.

"The target world _was_ in range when we opened the Mirror. The track collapsed when the destination vectored through this node," she said, pointing to a dense area where several lines merged and separated again. "I don't understand, this shouldn't even be possible..." she trailed off as Wilde moved back to examine the web surrounding the Mirror, pointing out various intersections on the lines that still revolved slowly around it.

The conversation between the two travellers was rapidly becoming incomprehensible as the terms became more obscure and the speed of their delivery increased. Albus saw Flitwick attempting to study the patterns as well, but turned to give him a hopelessly lost look.

"But why would that Line collapse if we hadn't yet arrived?" Wilde was asking.

"Retrocausality," the alternate Ms Granger supplied. Up until that moment, Albus had not thought it possible to contain so much gibberish in so few syllables.

Wilde looked at her, hummed thoughtfully and nodded, then turned to speak to the headmaster again.

"Professor Dumbledore. It appears that our arrival here is _itself_ what prevented us from reaching your world at the intended time."

And Albus thought time-turners were confusing. Then, he seized on an idea. As he understood it, the travellers couldn't have arrived in the future, because their presence _here_ had changed it; prevented it from coming to pass. Leaving aside the impossibility of it, without help from _somewhere_ the most likely futures from this point forward were dark indeed, as Albus could not yet envision a plan in which Voldemort could be defeated.

 _Perhaps these two will have played some role in that,_ he thought.

His decision made, he took a step towards the pair and spoke in a low, serious tone. "If you did not arrive at your intended destination because your presence here altered the future, perhaps that is because you can offer some help."

The visitors looked at each other for a moment then back at him.

"Of course sir," Hermione told him, "what can we do?"

"Our world has just entered a most perilous time. We have just been witness to the resurrection of a dark wizard calling himself 'Lord Voldemort'," Dumbledore told them gravely.

Albus was prepared for horrified flinches, he was even prepared for blank incomprehension, but he was not prepared for exasperated acceptance.

"Should have guessed," Wilde said to Hermione; "it's about the right time frame. A little early but still..." he shook his head, "Riddle just has to make a nuisance of himself everywhere doesn't he?" he asked rhetorically.

Ignoring Wilde's blasé dismissal of the most dangerous dark wizard in centuries, Albus asked them: "I find myself lacking a great deal of important information, anything you could tell me could be very helpful; but if nothing else can you tell me how the Harry Potter of your world defeated Voldemort? Would it be possible to speak to him?"

Wilde shared a concerned glance with Hermione who had gone very quiet and then looked back to Dumbledore. "Professor..." he started, then paused to consider his phrasing. "Harry– did not defeat Riddle."

At this Albus' hopes fell, and a cold weight descended upon him as the implications of Wilde's statement sunk in.

"I did."

* * *

Author's Notes:

I've read a number of dimension travelling/parallel world fics and I think it's an excellent mechanism to explore the world of a story. Many of these use the Veil in the Department of Mysteries as a portal/gateway, or some kind of special magic device or spell/ritual thingy; but I've never seen the Mirror used much at all, for anything. If it does appear it usually only works as it does in canon.

\- LJSi


	4. A New Plan

Chapter Four – A New Plan

Sirius Black threw the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld place in disgust, scattering its pages all over the room.

The so-called newspaper's headline screamed: 'Boy-Who-Lied?' Another salvo in the ministry's campaign to smear his godson. The attacks had started almost right after the events of the third task and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. No-one seemed willing to contradict Fudge's assertion that Voldemort had not returned.

As he nursed a mug of coffee – black, naturally – Sirius reflected that there were pluses and minuses to his current situation. He was out of Azkaban – dreams of that hell-hole still woke him up some nights – but he was still a wanted fugitive.

He was also back in a completely different hell-hole, his childhood 'home', and unable to leave, a definite minus; but Moony was here with him, and old friends and acquaintances came by to visit, and best of all Harry would arrive eventually. Big plus.

Another mark in the plus column was that Molly Weasley had been by almost every day since the school holidays had started with some of her children, helping to clean the place up. After nearly a week of furious effort, the place was actually approaching habitability. Most surprising of all, they'd managed not to wake up the portrait of his mother – another plus – but neither had they been able to remove it entirely.

The worst part wasn't the environment though, it was being stuck in it. In his new prison of the ancestral home of his hated family, he just felt... useless.

After escaping Azkaban, he'd spent months prowling around the grounds of Hogwarts, trying to gain entry to capture and kill that damned Rat. The thought of that traitor sleeping in the same room as Harry made his blood boil with anger and freeze with terror at the same time.

He'd actually managed to get in once, but the bypass charms he'd placed on the guardian portrait of the Gryffindor common room all those years ago – he could never quite remember the password when he was a student – had long since worn off; and the Fat Lady had not been amenable to persuasion. When he had finally gotten in with the passwords from Longbottom's list, the Rat was gone.

The time at Hogwarts hadn't been a total waste though, he had managed to watch Harry's quidditch games and been thrilled to see his godson's talents on a broom. The boy was a born seeker.

When he'd finally cornered Wormtail in the shrieking shack Harry had insisted on turning him in rather than killing him. After he'd been captured – by _Snape_ of all people, ugh – and escaped with Harry and Hermione's help, Dumbledore had sent him off to relax and recover.

Spending some time in the Caribbean had been helpful, he'd gained back some of the weight lost in prison and even recovered some of his humorous spirit. That spirit fell quickly though when Dumbledore contacted him with the news last autumn.

Learning that Harry had been entered into the tournament had him worried sick. Whatever was going on was obviously the work of Voldemort, and there was nothing they could do but wait for it to play out. Dumbledore had told him that the tasks had been watered-down significantly from previous competitions, but if Voldemort had interfered with it once...

He'd taken up residence in that cave near Hogsmeade and tried to help as best he could but ultimately Sirius' fears had proven correct as Harry was kidnapped from the maze and made to take part in some horrific ritual to resurrect the madman who'd murdered his parents.

Sirius had never regretted not killing the Rat as much as he did that night.

After hearing the story in Dumbledore's office, all he wanted to do was grab Harry and get him somewhere on the other side of the planet, somewhere Voldemort would never find him. Eventually though, after a long conversation that included a certain amount of yelling on Sirius' part, the headmaster had convinced him to let Harry return to those _Dursleys_.

When all this was over, Sirius was going to unleash the worst kind of hell a Marauder could think of on them. Pranks they'd deemed too nasty even for _Snape_.

He had spent the past couple of weeks reconnecting with some of his old friends and contacts. Venturing outside of the house was dangerous, there were wanted posters of him everywhere after all, and Dumbledore suspected that Pettigrew would have revealed his animagus form to the Death Eaters.

Sirius had tried to argue that one benefit of his status as 'Voldemort's-Right-Hand-Man' was that lower-level dark wizards would be more likely to talk with him; as long as he kept away from the inner-circle minions, who would know better, he should be able to gather some useful intelligence for the Order.

Dumbledore had shot that idea down however, pointing out that Voldemort would likely clear that misunderstanding up rather quickly; and then Sirius would have to evade two groups out to capture him.

He was right, but that just reinforced that sense of uselessness that hung over Sirius like a cloud.

He looked up as Remus entered the kitchen, took a seat at the table opposite him and poured his own mug of coffee, adding some cream and sugar.

"Good morning Padfoot," he said after taking a deep sip.

"Mornin' Moony. You want some breakfast?"

"Sounds good."

"Kreacher!" Sirius called, causing the elf to pop into the room.

"Master calls Kreacher?"

"Prepare another breakfast for Remus," Sirius commanded.

Kreacher looked at him in disgust and horror. "Master wishes to feed the half-breed?"

"Yes. Master does," Sirius told him pointedly, "and you're not to refer to him as such ever again."

With a grumbled "yes master" Kreacher disappeared.

"What did you do with the newspaper?" Remus asked, looking around the table for it.

"It's... around," Sirius waved his hand absently, "nothing worth reading. Except the comics."

"That's all you ever read," Remus said with a smile, waving his wand and bringing the scattered pages back to a neat pile.

"Ah," Remus said, seeing the headline, "perhaps you're right."

"Master's breakfast," Kreacher intoned. "And his... guest's," he added with a sneer.

"Great, now piss off you wretched little hatemonger," Sirius barked at him.

Grumbling and muttering, the elf levitated the plates onto the table before vanishing with a louder-than-nessesary pop.

"You don't have to be quite so..." Remus started.

"He's a menace," Sirius interrupted, "I've had to order him three different ways not to try to poison you," he pointed out.

Remus tilted his head, conceding the argument and started on his breakfast.

A white owl swooped into the kitchen, landing on the table in front of Sirius. For a moment, he thought it was Harry's owl, Hedwig. Disappointed, he took the parchment from the owl, held out a strip of bacon from his plate and looked at the note, written in Dumbledore's loopy script.

Remus started when Sirius banged the table causing the plates to rattle and the owl to squawk, chortling in excitement.

"Looks like Dumbledore has a plan." He announced, a wide smile on his face.

* * *

Ron Weasley woke to the sounds of his twin brothers thundering down the stairs outside his room. Groaning, he sat up in bed and yawned, rubbing his eyes. When the sounds of Fred and George faded as they ran out the back door – slamming the screen door on their way out – Ron flopped back down in bed and turned away from the window, pulling the covers over his head to block out the morning light. He loved sleeping in.

"Ron! Ginny! Breakfast!" he heard his mum call from downstairs.

Now properly motivated, Ron sprang from his bed, pulling his nightshirt over his head. Crossing the room, he reached into the basket of clean clothes that he hadn't quite gotten around to putting away and pulled out a shirt at random. Orange, excellent.

His trousers had been tossed over the desk, and when he pulled them towards him the pile of summer homework assignments followed, spilling over the floor.

"Bugger." He grumbled. He'd managed to put those from his mind. Well, it was only the first week of summer hols. He'd get to them eventually.

He pulled on his pants and ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it out. Exiting his room, he saw Ginny a few steps before him, heading to the kitchen.

Sitting down at the table, Ron inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of bacon, sausage and toast. Hogwarts had great food, lots of it, and a good variety, but nothing quite filled him up like his mum's breakfasts.

He ate slowly – for him anyways – as Fred and George bantered back and forth about some mad scheme or another and Ginny silently read some witch's magazine.

"We'll be going to Mr Black's house again today," Molly announced as they were finishing up. "It's time we tackled the second floor... none of that!" she scolded as groans came from the boys.

"Now, put your dishes in the sink and head upstairs. Find some clothes fit for scrubbing," she instructed.

Sighing inwardly, Ron carried his plate to the sink and returned to his room.

 _More cleaning. Wonderful,_ he thought to himself. The past few days had been filled with it. As if the layers of dust and grime covering Grimmauld place weren't bad enough, yesterday he'd run into a whole nest of doxies hiding in a curtain. He'd managed to avoid actually getting bitten, but it was a close thing, and the twins laughing at him as he ran through the hall had annoyed him greatly.

He took off his nice orange shirt and traded it for a faded grey one with a hole in the side. Crouching down he scooped up the homework assignments that had fallen off the desk and saw the letter he'd written to Harry.

He'd written it in defiance of Dumbledore's edict, but his mother had caught him while trying to send it off. Ron was surprised that instead of the yelling he had expected, his mother had understood what he was doing and let him off without _too_ much of a lecture, telling him only that Harry was in a difficult situation and was best left alone for a while.

That actually bothered Ron somewhat. He had a pretty good idea of how difficult things were for his best friend, and thought that Harry would be better off knowing Ron was with him; well, t _his_ time at least. The events of last year had forced Ron to become a bit introspective, and the guilt he felt over what happened still gnawed at him.

He'd actually turned his back on his best friend, the one person he thought he'd always stand with; after everything that had happened to them over the years he _knew_ better than to think that Harry would try to show him up. He knew better than _anyone_ how much Harry hated the attention he got.

Harry had of course, forgiven him. That was just who he was.

There was nothing he could do to change the past, he could only try to do better moving forward. Ron realized that if he wanted to make his own mark on the world, it would have to come as a result of his own efforts; he wanted to be Harry's best mate, but he wanted to be _known_ as Ron Weasley, star quidditch captain and keeper and eventual coach.

And the one who finally took the Cannons to the championship.

He remembered what he had seen in that magic mirror all those years ago. If he wanted to be Head Boy, he'd need to start pulling down some better marks.

Maybe he'd write Hermione, get some pointers on how to handle those summer assignments.

He also recognized the more practical need for improving his magical skills; bad times were coming, and Ron would be there to help. He wasn't going to let Harry down again.

With a plan in mind, and resolved to actually put it in motion, Ron left his room and headed back downstairs to face the dirt at Sirius' house.

As the family was assembling in the kitchen to floo over to Grimmauld Place a small brown owl floated into the room and landed on the table. Ron watched as his mum untied the message from the bird's leg and offered it a treat. Reading the note, she looked surprised, then smiled.

"Good news from Dumbledore," she told them.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat at the desk in her bedroom, staring at the half-completed letter she had written to her friend Harry before remembering her promise not to write him this summer.

There were times in the past that she had disregarded the rules and disobeyed her teachers, but they were few and far between. Contrary to her schoolmate's opinions, she did not revere authority for its own sake; she just respected the knowledge and experience of the adults in her life.

She believed that rules were important yes, but rules were predicated upon _reason_. So you _could_ break the rules, if you had a good enough reason to. The times she had done so were – to her thinking – for good reason, and so she didn't let them weigh on her; but nothing had ever caused her such consternation as this.

The headmaster had instructed her not to write to Harry this summer.

She had reluctantly agreed, but try as she might, Hermione was unable to grasp _why_ such a thing was important, the reason behind the rule. Given everything that had happened a few weeks ago Harry would need her support now more than ever.

Of course, there was nothing to prevent her from writing to Harry's _godfather_. A small smile crept on to her lips as she considered how she might still be able to help.

She'd read the recent history of the magical world of course, and although actually meeting Harry Potter had cast some doubt on the veracity of her books, she had a fair idea of just how bad things had been before that terrible Halloween night fourteen years ago.

Voldemort was a terribly dangerous foe to be sure, but his real power was in the fear he created, the legion of followers he controlled; without them he would still be a powerful wizard, but no longer a larger-than-life symbol of terror. Maybe then people could be convinced to stand up to him. Get enough of them working together and Voldemort wouldn't stand a chance. That was not going to be easy though.

Hermione had also shared her history books with her parents, who had started to receive the _Daily Prophet_ in an attempt to connect with the world their daughter lived in. Of course, that awful gossip rag didn't help matters. They had been systematically attacking both Harry and Dumbledore over the past week. Obviously the ministry was in denial. The sheer mindlessness of the magical world infuriated her. Didn't they understand that not thinking about something didn't make it go away?

Talking to her parents had been difficult, she didn't want them to panic and withdraw her from school, but neither did she want to shut them out. She was aware of the growing distance between them as she became more and more involved in a world that could never include them, and didn't want to lose them entirely.

It had taken all of an afternoon and most of an evening to explain everything. They had no trouble believing her about Voldemort and his return, but were understandably worried over the fact that she would be a target for those bigots. They had, at least, voiced no serious objection to her relationship with Harry, even knowing that he was the primary enemy of the resurrected dark lord.

There wouldn't be much she could do about the larger wizarding world, but at school at least she could make a difference, bringing people around to a proper way of thinking.

She just hoped they'd have a decent Defence professor next year. Maybe they could start up a study group...

Her thoughts were interrupted when a tawny owl flew into the closed window with a smack, leaving an owl-shaped pattern of dust on the glass; even the outlines of its feathers were visible.

"Oh! Poor thing!"

Hermione darted over to the window and pulled up the sash, allowing the owl to enter and then settled on her desk, giving her a reproachful look.

Carefully untying the note so as not to further annoy the owl, she held out her arm to the bird.

"I don't have any owl treats, but I'm sure there's something in the kitchen."

She carried the owl downstairs to the kitchen where it launched itself from her arm and landed on the back of a chair.

"Goodness, is that an owl?" her mother asked, entering the room.

"Yes, I just got a letter. Do we have any ham?" Hermione asked, looking in the fridge.

"I think so, in the crisper drawer. Who's the letter from?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione replied, holding a slice of lunch meat to the owl, which hooted and motioned to the note she held in her other hand, still unread, before snapping up the offered food.

Unfolding the parchment she searched over the message, written in a flourishing hand that made it – in her opinion – unnecessarily hard to read, and found the signature at the bottom.

Her eyes widened, why would Dumbledore be writing her?

* * *

Author's Notes:

This was the last chapter of set-up before the proper story begins. This, along with chapter two, was difficult to write, as I'm trying to get into the character's heads without stepping on canon too much. There isn't much detail on the summer before Order of the Phoenix, about the only thing I was able to determine was that Dumbledore told Ron and Hermione not to write Harry any letters for some reason.

\- LJSi


End file.
